


Old Habits

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So I came out of MTMTE shipping these two. I know. They weren't even in the same panel ONCE.  I have clearly been in fandom too long. orz</p><p> I am one tiny nudge from writing porn of them.  <s>god help us all</s></p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Habits

She hadn’t joined the _Lost Light_ because of him, but now that he was in charge, Nautica couldn’t restrain her curiosity, peeking over the top of her datapad in the refectory’s small alcove at him. Megatron. The Slag-Maker. The Scourge of Simanzi, the Butcher of Sherma Bridge. He had about a hundred fuel-chilling names, but somehow, they didn’t square with the mech she saw. Sure, he was large—maybe even bigger than Thunderclash. And he had that same sort of air of command—not so much arrogance as just the sense that when he gave orders, it was just natural law that they should be carried out.

A leader, yes, but from reading the Autobot histories, she’d expected something more, well, terrifying. Tentacles, bloody claws, fanged teeth. At the very least an air of dangerous insanity.

He seemed…well, as normal as any Autobot she’d met so far. Which maybe wasn’t saying very much. But he certainly didn’t seem like a mass murdering psychopath.

But he did, right now, look exactly like a mech that had caught her looking at him. Scrap! She tried to duck behind her datapad, as he planted his palms on his table, pushing up to his feet. She could feel him, hear him, crossing over to her table, until his shadow falling over her made her little act seem more than a little silly.

“Nautica, is it?”

She nodded, trying to act casual and knowing she was failing. Megatron, talking to her. She felt like she was a part of history, somehow. “I-I didn’t mean to be staring.” There, might as well ‘fess up, girl.

“I’ve faced worse than curious optics,” he said, with an almost easy shrug. “You’re one of the ones from Caminus.” A question disguised as a statement of fact.

Could curiosity go two ways? Was he curious about her? If there was anything more magical, or dangerous, than two-way curiosity, Nautica didn’t know it. Well, she wasn’t ever one to waste an opportunity. “I’ve been reading the histories.” She indicated the pad that she laid aside, a little self-consciously. “And---?”

He gave a rolling gesture of one hand, a ‘go on’.

“You’re Megatron. Of Tarn.” She was trying to echo his ‘fact’ tone. “Who wrote the _Mechanilegium_?”

He gave a blink, almost a start, at the question. Oh, had she surprised him? She couldn’t help but feel a frisson of delight at the idea.

“That was a long time ago,” he said, finally. “My poetry days are long, long behind me.”

“That’s a shame. Because I have to say, you were a real master of binary metrics.” She scooted forward on her seat, almost wanting to pull up one of the poems, then decided sitting while he stood was too weird, so she stood up. This close, the height, the broadness, seemed even more appealing. She could swear she caught a whiff of his mechanisms, the oil and lubricants, a subtle difference from the Autobots, far less light and sweet than Camiens.

“I’d be curious to know how you found it.”

“Thunderclash. I…sort of pillaged his library.” What? Four million years of history to catch up on? You bet she did.

“Thunderclash.” He seemed thoughtful, for a moment. “I wouldn’t peg him for a fan.”

“He’s quite cultured.”

“And I’m a war criminal,” Megatron said, one shoulder hitching in what was supposed to be a nonchalant shrug.

“What he doesn’t have,” Nautica continued, almost doggedly. Because she’d gotten a scent of something she wanted, and nothing was going to stand in her way, least of all good manners. “Are your speeches.”

The laugh was more like a bark, surprised and a little bitter. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“I bet you have a copy. Or could get one.” She tried a winning smile.

“I’m not sure that’s quite…,” he paused, the baritone rumble of his voice trailing off, searching for words, “proper. In the circumstances.”

"And you've never done anything improper?" She felt her spark flutter, strangely, like she had just finished a skimmer race. Oh there was nothing proper about this at all: Chromia would be flipping gears if she was here.

"Perhaps I'm trying to break the habit."

She cocked a hip, smile flipping to a pout. "Some timing I have, then." She felt outright saucy, like he radiated some kind of reckless courage.

"I'm fairly certain it's against the Autobot Code." Propaganda from the enemy? Probably. All the more reason to want it.

Also, the thought of hearing that voice, rolling in round, thunderous syllables….oh, my. She leaned in, whispering cheekily. "I'm not really an Autobot."

He laughed, almost in spite of himself. "Persistent, aren't you?"

She gave an echoing laugh, feeling her cheekplates heat. "I've been told that before, yes."

"I can imagine." He couldn't help the wry smile. It looked awkward, like something he hadn’t done in far too long.

"What else? What else can you...imagine?" This was heady and dangerous, or as dangerous as she could get, she thought. "About me."

"Adventurous."

"That's easy," she said, pulling a face. "You could say that about anyone on the _Lost Light_." Cheater!

"Fair enough." He tilted his head, considering. "Not afraid of being alone," he said, after a moment.

"Good guess."

"Hardly a guess. You remind me of--" he stopped, abruptly. "Of me, actually. Before the war." He didn’t sound like he was sure it was a good thing.

"I think I'm going to take it as a compliment." It felt like one, all warm and squirmy against her spark.

"I'm not sure the others would agree." His red optics flicked to the refectory main room, the bustle of noise, jokes they both knew would quell the moment he stepped out of the alcove’s shadow.

"They're free to have their own opinions. This one's mine," Nautica said, with a firm nod.

"Nautica. You've read the histories. You've read what I've done." He spread his palms, not denying.

"What's that saying? History's written by the victors?"

"There were no victors in this war."

“They seem to be claiming victory.” She reached out, her finger almost hot with boldness, just brushing the red insignia on his chassis. This close, she could see the old scarring in the metal, underneath, the heavy chestplate covered with a fine pitting of years of wear. “And then there’s this.”

“That’s…personal.” He stepped back, almost a flinch, as though her touch scalded.

She could feel her fuel pump racing, the residual fuzz of his EM field against her hand. “What did you say in your _Treatise_? ‘The personal is always political’?”

"You seem to be the only one to see that, though." He sounded grudging, but it was words that somehow, he'd needed--wanted--to hear. Surrounded by people who thought you evil, who mistrusted your every word, you began to mistrust yourself, to see yourself through their eyes, as they saw you. Murderer, deceiver, destroyer of worlds.

"Their loss," she said, and felt the fluttery energy seem to bubble up through her, rising her closer, pushing her onto her toeplates, pressing her mouth against his in a satin brush of a kiss. He froze, his mouth half-parted in surprise, her lips warm against his, and he was still fumbling, wordless, for a response as she stepped back, her own mouthplates, her whole body, tingling from excitement, cyberdrenaline, and a stir of desire. Megatron. She'd kissed Megatron, the Slag Maker. Megatron, the poet from Tarn. She still couldn't reconcile the two of them, but now, she really, really wanted to.

She leaned in, just enough that her EM field's edge ghosted over his, teasing both of them with the possibility of another kiss. She could feel him lean in, electrons swimming over her like sunlight.

"I think you should write more poetry," she murmured, her voice raw and husky with invitation, optics glowing up at his. She turned to the alcove’s entrance, quickly, before she ruined it all by caving in herself, feeling her spark pounding in her chassis, on fire with her own boldness, tossing a saucy wink over her shoulder as she crossed the threshold.

"I might," he said, as the bustle of the refectory swallowed Nautica in light and noise and boisterous camaraderie. "I just might."


End file.
